


Trapped

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Childhood Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Community: hc_bingo, Dark, Drug Abuse, Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Imprisonment, Off-Screen Injury, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26043283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: For Sherlock Holmes, physical imprisonment is not the worst of harms...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 3





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2010.
> 
>  _Original A/N on LJ:_ Written for the “imprisonment” square on my hc_bingo card. I choose a slightly more liberal approach this time.  
> Please review and tell me what you think. Also, I suck at titles. I'm open to suggestions.

_It hadn't been him. It was never his fault._

_He had not done anything, had not even left his room the entire morning. The chemistry book he'd had found had been far too interesting. Not that anyone would understand him. Except Mycroft. But Mycroft was away, and Celine was not yet back – she was visiting her family in France, and he couldn't really blame her for that, but right now, he wished she were there._

_He had no idea why his father had decided to pick on him today, and in a way, it did not matter. Actually, he wished he could for once just shut his mind up, trying to escape the present. But Father would not let him._

_"You are hurting me!"_

_"Stop squirming, brat. No need to cause bruises."_

_Sherlock stilled as the strong arms wrapped themselves around his small torso. He was afraid that they would crush him, much like those violent hands had crushed the empty bottle just moments before. The blood was leaving smears on his clothes, but that was of no concern._

_Once he realised where they were going, he struggled again, and cried out for the servants, but of course they didn't hear, they never heard, before the giant hand smelling of coppery blood was clasped over his mouth, cutting off the sound._

_He knew what was to come. He knew he would likely spend hours locked in, hours in the darkness, maybe day... Until someone found him. The servants wouldn't search. They were afraid. They said he was possessed, an abomination._

_The Father pushed him against the far wall of the locker room - to small for him to enter, to low for Sherlock to stand upright – blocking the small entrance entirely. He held out a small flask to him. "Drink. The doctor prescribed me that, but I rather think it is better used here."_

_"What is it?"_

_The large hand crashed down on his mouth again, slamming his head into the wall. "Not a word, little devil. Drink! Or I will hurt you."_

_He accepted the small bottle – what else was he to do, what was it, why couldn't he just get away, stop the thoughts, just let it happen... He drank the liquid, it tasted like water, with something else, something... Suddenly, he felt very drowsy, stumbling, falling; he crashed into the floor, and all was numb. He could not move – he tried screaming, but there was no sound, and then the door fell shut. He was trapped, trapped in the darkness, in his body, with his thoughts racing away out of control._

* * *

He knew they were handling a syringe even before the nurse turned around, and the glass glittered in the evening sun streaming through the great hospital windows. "No." His own voice sounded off, harsh and raspy, and he scrambled back on the bed, despite the pain, despite the fact that his body was shaking with uncontrolled tremors. "No!"

"Holmes!"

He kept his gaze locked on the syringe, Watson's words barely reaching his ears. The man himself grasped his hand awkwardly, unable to apply much pressure due to the bandage encircling his broken fingers. "It's only a mild muscle relaxant - you will make your injuries worse if we allow you to toss and turn in your sleep. For heaven's sake, stop squirming!"

"No. Watson, no!" For the first time, he managed to lock his gaze with that of his dear doctor, and he saw the realisation dawning in their brown depth. "I can't bear sedatives. I can't be trapped in my body – you can't understand what it does to my mind, please, Watson..."

To his utter relief, Watson held up a hand to stop the approach of the nurse. "I understand. I am very sorry, Holmes. I should have known the workings of your mind better by now, my friend." He pressed his hand, compassion and deep understanding shining in his eyes.

Holmes was glad he had met the man, assured that no one else had ever been able to really understand. "Thank you, Watson."

"Would a sleeping draught be more acceptable then?"

"Yes. I do trust you, Watson, I just..."

"It is all right."


End file.
